Vanishing Point - Marc Cerasini [5]
Feeling no bullet impact, no jolt of pain — and not quite comprehending his good fortune — Guiterrez stumbled into the middle of the busy street, crossing against the light. But as he attempted to weave between passing cars, Guiterrez's legs suddenly felt weighted, a pounding throbbed in his ears, and he realized he had been hit. He was losing blood fast...
* * *
"The target is down. Repeat. The target is down. I'm moving out."
CTU Field Agent Tony Almeida reached behind his back, grabbed the handle of the Glock tucked into the belt holster of his black denims. A moment ago, he'd spied Gordon Guiterrez strolling along the sidewalk, but Tony barely had time to report the sighting before the firelight erupted. Two women had been torn apart by the automatic weapon's fire. Guiterrez had lunged out of the way, but he'd been struck too. Now he was stumbling into the middle of the street, trailing blood.
Tony tried to move quickly through the panicked crowd, pointing his weapon to the ground in case of accidental discharge. The vigil for Guiterrez had been a long one. According to Jack Bauer's uncharacteristically sketchy briefing, this was to be a simple extraction, complicated by the fact that Guiterrez was being hunted by Colombian assassins.
Bauer maintained that the cartel's reach probably didn't extend far enough to cover operations in Nicaragua. The moment the gunman stepped out of the crowd and fired, Tony knew Jack's assessment had been wrong.
Tony wasn't completely surprised by the ambush. The CIA's south of the border security was generally sloppy, and already there'd been numerous security breaches in Central and South American in recent days. What did surprise him were the words of his boss, now coming through the headset.
"Is Guiterrez carrying a backpack or a briefcase?" Jack Bauer demanded.
Almeida spied Guiterrez sloppily dodging moving cars and vans. Jack was right. The man was clutching something. Tony was also aware of the assassin on the sidewalk, still trying to get a clear shot at the injured agent.
Almeida spoke into the pinpoint microphone. "Jack, why do you need to know —?"
"Is Guiterrez carrying something? A bag, a parcel? Anything?"
"He's got an attache case..."
"Retrieve that case at any cost. Even if it means abandoning Guiterrez. Do you understand me, Tony?"
No, Jack. I don't understand, Almeida thought, but said, "Roger, Jack... I got it."
* * *
Jack Bauer cursed as he drew his Glock. "Saiga de la manera. Muevase! Muevase!" he shouted at the crowd around him. He raised his weapon high enough for everyone to see, barrel pointed to the sky. "Muevase! Muevase!"
He pushed through the mass of people. Pedestrians who heard him — or saw the weapon — instantly obeyed his shouted command and got out of the way. Those who didn't were dodged or elbowed aside.
Jack heard screams, outraged shouts and startled cries.
"El tiene un arma!"
"Ese hombre va a tirar a su arma!"
People dashed into shops, cowered in doorways. Jack kept going. He regretted causing a panic, but at least the civilians were scattering. That's one break in this whole rotten mess.
Like Tony, Jack had been waiting for hours, lingering near a food cart on Bolivar Street — on the wrong side of the construction site, as it turned out. Feet pounding the pavement, he wondered where he'd screwed up.
When he and Tony had first arrived in Nicaragua, they'd hooked up with Case Officers Ben Burwell and James Cantrel at Fuqua Construction — their CIA shell company cover. But in Jack's quick estimation, Burwell and Cantrel had been recycling the same reports for some time. The eyes and ears of United States intelligence in Nicaragua were nothing more than career floaters, coasting toward retirement, and their entire Nicaraguan operation had been lax probably since the Sandinistas were voted out of power in 1990.
After observing the two men conduct business, Jack concluded that the "organization" in Managua was riddled with cartel informants,